I have not read any of the Harry Potter books, and though I saw the first film in a theater and the second film on a long Emirates flight, I haven’t been keeping up with the movie versions either. I’ve got no objection to the Potter books on artistic or theological grounds, and mine is not an aversion rooted in snobbery. It’s just that I can always think of something else I’d rather read.
That said, I’ve heard from several people this weekend who excitedly report that in the epilogue to the final story, two central characters end up married with children — and they name their son “Hugo.” One young man I work with came running up to me on Saturday to inquire what my name “really means”, convinced that there was some deep symbolism embodied in Rowling’s choice. My name, depending on which source text you use, means “bright” or (I like this better) “bright mind.” This revelation seemed deeply satisfying to the sixteen year-old who was querying me, and he went off quite pleased.
I was named for my father’s side of the family. “Hugo” was my father’s father’s father. He came from a family of Moravian Jews who had thoroughly assimilated, and thus he and his brothers all had these very Germanic names (Berthold and Ludwig were other choices). “Benedict”, my middle name, comes from the first name of another great-great-grandfather. (My brother, Philip Arthur, was named for my mother’s side of the family).
I grew up hating my name. The teasing started early; some of my readers will be old enough to remember the character “Hugo, Man of a Thousand Faces” (a seemingly innocuous title that became a painful burden). One group of insipid children in third grade came up with the inspired “Hugo’s a go-go” (not that they really knew what go-go dancing entailed), and that monicker lasted throughout elementary school. I can remember wishing, at age ten or so, that I had been named “Mike”. That was by far the most popular boys’ name in my school, and it seemed just the sort of name that would act as a magical coat of protection against all sorts of insults. Once, while on the school bus, I tried to tell a new boy that my name was Mike, just to “try out” the new title; I was overheard and my deceit was greeted with cheerful howls of derision.
I began to appreciate my name in high school, largely because in my adolescence I began to value the very things I had been so ashamed of in my childhood. Where at nine or ten I had longed to fit in with all the other boys, at fifteen and sixteen I delghted in my uniqueness. I didn’t meet another Hugo until I was a seventeen year-old high school senior; I encoutered him at the California state Model UN convention. He was Hispanic, and when he introduced himself, asked “How did a white guy end up with a name like Hugo?” I was about to ask him a similar question; we had each assumed that Hugo belonged to a specific language group and were a bit thrown to discover that there are versions of Hugo in most Western European tongues.
I’ve met Dutch Hugos, Swedish Hugos, English Hugos and — by now — a great number of Hugos from Spanish-speaking families. Venezuala’s Chavez, with his infamy, has given the name a sinister touch (or, in the eyes of the fringe global left, a certain Fidelisque cachet). What I haven’t met yet is an American-born Hugo who doesn’t come out of a Hispanic background. I’ve corresponded with one or two, but haven’t yet met in person.
There is pleasure in an unusual name, though it is a pleasure I had to learn to love. I like knowing today that if I hear someone yell “Hugo” in a crowd, it is almost invariably for me. Yelling “Juan” or “Michael” (or, these days, “Hunter” or “Dylan”) often leads only to confusion. I like that I am easy to google, unlike my good friend Jennifer Brown or my dear colleague Steve Richards. The names that my wife and I have tentatively discussed for our future children, should the Lord bless us in that regard, will be kept secret until after the small ones arrive. But I can say that most of our options are indeed unusual. I fully expect my future son or daughter to go through a stage where they wish they had been named “Emily” or “Daniel” instead of the far more unusual name they’ve been given.
I like to scan the popular baby names provided by the Social Security Administration. My operating rule is that no child ought to be given a name from the top 50. Obviously, names go in and out of fashion; the current trend for boys’ names seems to be to mine the Old Testament, and for girls it seems trendy to turn to the likes of Jane Austen for inspiration. I didn’t know any “Avas” or “Jacobs” in my youth, and it seems that names like Lisa or Troy (which were hugely popular among those of us born in the mid-to-late ’60s) have all but vanished. But while one cannot predict long-term trends, one can predict what will be popular on elementary school rosters a few years from now. And it seems wise and good and right to pick with an eye towards the unusual, the ancient, the meaning-filled. Even if such a choice will lead a child to curse her parents when she is nine, she will surely rejoice in what is nearly uniquely hers when she is older.
I am a very happy Hugo Benedict.
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